The Mechanical Mechanic His Apprentice and the Judge

21 Pages·2016·0.11 MB·English

by  Castle Sarah K

The Mechanical Mechanic, His Apprentice, and the
Judge
by Sarah K. Castle

"No business after six!" Lewis yelled from his chair next to the milling machine.
The shop had been closed for an hour, and Epictetus was the only company he
wanted tonight. After a minute, the polite knocking resumed. Smiling at the
irony, he traced a passage from The Discourses with a titanium finger.
When you close your doors and make darkness within, remember never to say
that you are alone, for you are not alone; nay, God is within, and your genius is
within. God and genius were damned tonight; whoever was at the door needed a
mechanic.
He lurched upright, using the pile of books next to the chair for support. The
rewired nerves in his hip always took a while to wake up, leaving him unsteady
on the prosthetic leg. He took the clean coverall hanging on the drill press'
handle and pulled it over his worn jeans and t-shirt, to cover his steel arm.
"Can't read the goddamn sign or what?" he grumbled, passing the dusty metal
shelves piled with car parts on his way to the front door.
Paula Larsen from the Alma Township Council stood outside, her fist raised,
ready to knock again. A bulky young man stood several paces behind her.
"Mr. MacBain, sorry to disturb you."
"Like the sign says, I conduct all of my business at the gate, Ms. Larsen."
"I'm not here to discuss the cars."
"The gate." He shut the door firmly and walked to the side door, cursing
himself for having nipped into his whiskey stash tonight. If Council sent Paula,
they wanted something. Whiskey on his breath would give her more leverage to
get it. It was probably about the fight at the Top Deck last weekend. They'd want
him to come to a prayer meeting to account for himself and decide on a
restitution for that young fuck.
Lewis would make the restitution if it kept council out of his business and him
out of those goddamned prayer meetings. Alma needed vintage race cars and he
had the materials and knowledge to produce them. He made cars for their track
and in return asked only to be left alone. That was the deal. He didn't need or
want to go to meetings to praise God, Alma and Country. He'd done his service
for the country forty years ago, and if anything, he figured this grass-roots
theocracy owed him on several counts. From the way it'd grown wild across the
whole country, Lewis knew they could afford to pay.
Larsen stood, arms crossed, on the other side of the razor-wire-topped fence as
Lewis unlocked the gate. The oldest of his dogs, a black-spotted grey shepherd,
snuffled at her and her charge when they entered the junkyard. The old bitch was
the only dog tame enough to leave unchained when he had visitors. He hoped
she did not make them feel welcome.
Lewis didn't recognize the young man. He wore a black tank top, revealing
arms densely inked with tattoos from wrist to shoulder. Black hair, trimmed
close to the scalp, extended along his jaw as thick stubble, framing a pale face
with a light olive tone. Muscled arms and shoulders told Lewis he'd worked as a
laborer. The cast on his forearm told him this must be the boy he'd roughed up at
the Top Deck. Apparently, if they couldn't get Lewis to come in for their moral
judgment, they'd bring it out to him. Lewis' skin crawled. The cast was bulky; it
must have been a bad break.
Lewis sat in one of the two lawn chairs next to the big wooden cable spool he
used as a table. Moths fluttered past on their way up to the floodlight bolted to
the shop wall. Ms. Larsen sat in the second chair slightly tilted; it was missing a
strap from the seat. The young man stood next to the fence.
"I believe I smell alcohol on you, Lewis, and it's not even the weekend. How
could that be?" Larsen squirmed to sit up straighter in the crooked chair.
"I need solvents for my work every day of the week."
"You work hard, Mr. MacBain. No one in Alma could deny that, and Lord
knows we all appreciate it. But if you don't attend weekly meetings, what are we
to do when business that concerns you comes up? We can't allow you to evade
restitution for harm done. Don't you want to make things right with Mark? For
the love of God, you broke his arm and put him out of work, maybe for months."
She gestured to Mark who stared silently at the ground.
Fucking punk couldn't even work it up to look him in the eye. Lewis watched
him so he'd catch him if he tried. The little bastard had been at the Top Deck
bragging on his so-called service: sitting on a ship in the Persian Gulf for two
years. He'd been high on crystal and bitching about why didn't we take care of
Iraq and Iran forty years ago. As if those first ten years of fighting meant
nothing. Lewis had been there only four months and it left him able, forty years
later, to break a man's arm and not even know it.
Lewis pulled a cigarette from his chest pocket and lit it with a stiff motion. His
left hand rested on the table top and he tapped each metal finger on it in turn.
The rubber-tipped finger rods and hydraulic tendons moved with powerful
delicacy, sliding on their spherical servomotor joints. Usually, he hid his
mechanical parts, kept his hand in a pocket, limbs under pant legs and sleeves.
He knew they made people uncomfortable.
Larsen stared at the hand for long seconds before she looked away. "We all
appreciate your sacrifice for our Country. But you aren't the only one who's
made sacrifices, and it doesn't give you the right to beat on any youngster who
spouts off about it. Mark served two years. Every young man serves God and
Country these days."
Lewis tapped his cigarette ash into the piston that he used for an ashtray. He
moved quickly, so she couldn't see his hand trembling. Did she think he'd only
lost his hand?
"There isn't anyone in Alma who can say a goddamn thing about my sacrifices.
What they do today isn't service. They're just working for their welfare checks.
Get to the point. What do you want me to do?" He cursed to shock her, to hurt
her. But she just stiffened a little; he'd never been able to strike back as hard as
he'd been hit.
"We discussed your restitution to Mark at the Wednesday meeting, as I'm sure
you knew we would. You weren't there."
"A person doesn't have to attend the meetings."
"By not attending the meetings, your opinions and vote on any matters
discussed there are abrogated. Surely you know a machine works best when it
has all its parts, and you are an important part of Alma, a powerful part."
"Get to the point."
"The Council is concerned with all community members' salvation. We're
aware of your moral failings."
"Which of my moral failings concern Council today?"
"We know about your arrangement with the bartender at the Top Deck, to get
more than your allotment of alcohol."
"If that's such a terrible failing, all our grandparents are in hell."
"Some sins are greater than others, but Council is concerned about you. We
have to be. Your work, supplying cars for the Township Races, is a vital part of
our economic machine. The president himself watches our races each month on
his sports-feed."
"The president himself, how nice for Alma to have his attention." Lewis
interrupted her, his voice tight.
Larsen stared back at him. "Who will do this work when you're no longer with
us? The community needs you to train someone. At the same time, restitution is
required for the harm you've inflicted on Mark. After much discussion, Council
decided that you will take him on as an apprentice."
"You've got to be kidding. I work alone. I always have. That's the way I like it.
That's the way it will stay." He flushed, and was glad his beard covered his
cheeks.
"We can do without new cars at the races for many months, MacBain. How
long can you go without drink? If it comes right down to it, how long can you go
without your daily bread? Without electricity and everything else the Township
provides? None of us really works alone, do we, Mr. MacBain?"
Lewis leaned back in the chair, felt the wood frame push into his shoulders. He
stubbed the cigarette out in the piston, and then lit another one, holding it in the
ever-steady prosthetic hand.
"Why him? He's a crystal addict. Anyone who's been in the military could see
it."
"We believe the arrangement will be mutually beneficial."
"What's your name, boy?" Lewis addressed the young man.
"His name is Mark Peterson," Larsen answered. The boy nodded at Lewis
before dropping his gaze back to the ground.
"Peterson. Any relation to Percy Peterson, Council chair?"
"Mark is his son."
"Surprise, surprise. Council will inherit my business in the end. How
convenient. He's an addict, Ms. Larsen. Doesn't anyone on Council have a son
who has his shit together?" Lewis' heart pounded. He didn't want any help, didn't
need it, especially from a fucking crystal addict. How could they do this to him
after what happened with Katherine? It had been a long time ago, but surely
someone on council remembered.
"The more bitter the trial, the fuller the salvation."
"I can't think of one person on Council who personally knows anything about
trials or salvation. I'm not running a half-way house here."
"No, and from what I've heard of your history, you wouldn't be the best man
for that job. Peterson, however, wants his son in your business. Mark will finish
the two month detox program he's in now, and will arrive to assist you a month
from today, on May first."
So they did know about Katherine and they were inflicting this boy on him
anyway. His throat tightened and he smashed the cigarette out half smoked.
"Though God and grace, Mr. MacBain, this arrangement will work out for the
best for all involved."
As Ms. Larsen stood to leave, Lewis flicked the switch he'd rigged up on his
left inner forearm disabling the peripheral nervous system feedback. Feeling no
resistance from the mechanical hand, he picked up the aluminum alloy piston
and crushed it slowly.
Ms. Larsen smiled sourly at him, "Let's go, Mark."
Mark watched Lewis from under his eyelashes in mute terror. Lewis wanted to
throw the crushed piston at him, but with the feedback system turned off he'd
likely break yet another bone in the boy's body.
*
Lewis enjoyed his last days of solitude. The bristle-furred junkyard mutts leapt
and barked when he opened the back door. All five dogs mobbed him as he set
down their food bowls. Twenty acres of junkyard spread away from the back
door. His lot was the largest piece of privately-owned property in the entire
township, as much as property belonged to anyone privately anymore. The old
cars weighed on it. Lewis could bring value from these junk piles, so they and
the property beneath them remained his alone for all practical purposes.
Mentally picking through the scrap cars and their usable parts, he began to plan
the overhaul of Johnson's 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge. Johnson wanted it fixed up
for his grand-daughter, who wanted to race. The car's body was almost rust-free,
but the motor would need work after seventy-plus years in a barn.
It had taken Lewis a week to get the tow truck running after Johnson came to
see him. Nobody needed things towed these days. All the cars made in the last
twenty years were subject to a mandatory recycling program. They had to be
turned back after five years. Their bodies were light weight plastic-carbon
composites. Engines could not exceed forty horsepower. They ran on bio-diesel
or ethanol. Lewis would rather walk than drive those toys.
The massive steel Judge now sat outside the shop door, just feet from where
the dogs gobbled their food. The white rally stripes had mostly crumbled to dust,
leaving ghosts of themselves in less faded orange paint running along the quarter
panels and doors. The two rectangular air grills up front looked like shovels to
ram air into the carburetor hidden beneath the hood's smooth sweep. Lewis
imagined the fat tires he would mount on the broad, cast-aluminum rims and the
torque they would transmit. The car was beautiful sitting still. When it raced, it
would inspire awe.
Put two or more such vehicles on an asphalt track together, race them around
with their motors bellowing, and a crowd would gather. People traveled by train
for days to get to Alma, to hear the old engines grumble, see smoke trail from
the tires as they screeched around the curves, and smell the burning oil and
rubber.
Lewis himself never went to the races. He knew the cars more intimately. He
had built them all. Lewis didn't care which car won, they all belonged to him.
When they left the junkyard, they were tuned perfectly for their purpose. To
keep them tuned, the drivers would bring them back. Lewis' contribution to
Alma began and ended at the junkyard gate, clean and simple. It made Council
nervous to depend so much on a crotchety old atheist living just outside of town.
They'd tried for years to draw him out of the junkyard. Now, with this damned
apprentice, they'd found a way to get themselves in.
*
After breakfast, the dogs wandered off into the weed-choked rows of cars. The
old grey dog moved to follow them, but stopped short of the junkyard's shadows.
She lowered herself clumsily to the ground, stretching out in a sunny area near
the house. Before opening the shop, Lewis stroked her head and rubbed her
shoulders, sympathetic to her aches. The big shop door rattled its chain pulley as
it rose, letting in more light and fresh air with each pull. The boy would arrive
today.
Lewis put his notebook in the front basket of his big, sturdy tricycle. He
wanted an inventory, on paper, of his Pontiacs and their relative conditions.
Before he started taking Johnson's Judge apart, he needed to know what he had
to work with. He felt he shouldn't start anything until the boy showed up, and it
irritated him. The boy would have to learn to work on Lewis' schedule. He
headed out through the rows of cars, the knobby tires of the trike crushed weeds
as he pedaled.
Mark was pacing next to the gate when Lewis returned about three hours later.
He didn't notice when Lewis pulled up.
"Mark," he said, dismounting the trike.
Mark's head snapped towards Lewis.
"Hey man, you're Mac-Bin," he stumbled on the words.
Lewis approached him. The boy's pupils were black wells. He was high.
"Lewis MacBain, son. Say it."
"Loo, loo, loo-iss." Mark said. "That's cool, man, that's a cool name." Then
Mark started to laugh uncontrollably, gasping "Aw man, aw man..."
Lewis turned away from Mark and left him there, laughing outside the gate.
Lewis rolled the trike around to the shop door. He fired up the forklift and
pushed the Judge into the shop and onto the lift. One dog stood sentry at the
fence, growling and barking at the boy. As he pulled the chain to close the door,
Lewis looked around the corner of the shop and saw Mark pacing and picking at
his hair. The dog had quit barking but watched him warily.
He called Ms. Larsen at the Township.
"Mark isn't going to work out here."
"Mr. MacBain, Mark does have problems, but we as a community are bound to
help him find a way to solve them. He just finished detox. Meaningful work will
help Mark kick his addiction."
"I'm a mechanic, not a therapist."
"The therapists recommend work for Mark. Just as we will care for you, when
you get too old to care for yourself, you must help us care for Mark."
"How long before we can admit the therapy has failed?"
"If it doesn't work out in three months, we'll identify another candidate to be
your apprentice."
"It's not working out right now. He's at the gate, high. This is my home; he isn't
coming in high."
"Just keep him," Ms. Larsen said tightly, "eight hours a day out at your place.
He needs to be out of town, away from temptation. If you really feel he can't
learn your trade after working with him for three months, we will send someone
else."
Ending the call, Lewis roughed his beard. He had to wait it out. The boy could
show up each morning, buzz around the shop door for the day, then head back to
whatever they had for him in town at night. He wasn't stuck with this broken
boy. He couldn't fix him, wouldn't try.
He approached the Judge, opened the hood. After seventy years sitting, he
didn't try to fire it up. He would work it top to bottom; down through the valves,
pistons, and crankcase, then on back through the transmission. With the heart
and guts rebuilt, he would start on the linkages, drive shaft and axles.
Around six o'clock, Lewis finished work, happy with his progress. His mind
already drifted towards the volume of Robert Frost's poetry he'd started last
night. He pulled the shop door down, and then went out the side door to feed the
dogs. He found Mark still there, sitting against the shop wall outside the fence.
He walked quietly to the gate and saw the boy's chest rise and fall, still alive, just
sleeping. The boy would get cold eventually, wake in the night and walk home.
*
A dull banging sounded through the shop, waking Lewis from a deep sleep.
He'd fallen asleep earlier than usual, lulled by the poetry. The dogs began to bark
and a deep tension shot from his stomach to shoulders.
How did someone get to the door without the dogs barking beforehand? If this
was a joke, it was damn cruel, reviving a forty-year old nightmare.
The moon through the skylights allowed Lewis to make it through the maze of
shelves without a flash-light. He flicked the switch on his inner arm and threw
the front door open, hoping to catch the intruder by surprise.
He found himself eye-to-eye with Mark. The boy hugged himself, shivering.
"Oh, thank God, I'm so cold I..." Mark took a step towards the door as if to
enter. Lewis struck out with a two-handed push to the chest, remembering too
late that the safety was off. He watched in horror as his hands hit. Mark
stumbled backwards and fell to the ground.
Lewis crossed the threshold and knelt next to him. Mark's breathing was quick,
but deep and smooth. His dark eyes, wide open, reflected the moonlight.
Lewis stood up, "You broke?"
The boy rolled to his side, then pushed himself to a sitting position with both
arms. Lewis was relieved, he'd be screaming if his ribs or sternum were broken.
"Go the fuck home, tweaker. You aren't coming in here," he said, voice rough.
The sense of deja-vu overpowered him. Katherine in the moonlight, begging at
the door. He'd always let her in. Always. It hadn't changed a damn thing. She
always left again eventually.
He slammed the door, throat tightening as he tried to shut out the memories
from forty years ago. The dogs stopped barking after a while, but it took a long
time for him to go back to sleep.
*
The dogs yipped when Lewis opened the door, breaking the morning quiet of
the junkyard. He took deep breaths of the rust scented air, waking slowly.
Setting the food bowls down, he noticed the old grey dog was missing from the
scrabbling canine crowd. She must be dead somewhere out in the yard.
No, here she is. He smiled, relieved, seeing her limp stiffly around the corner
of the shop from the gate. She's just late off the line today.
The old dog kept pausing in her short journey to look back over her shoulder
toward the gate. When she reached the bowls, he pushed the other dogs aside for
her with his flesh leg, and then walked to the gate to check it out.